Broken Glass
by ijustwanttobeabritishman
Summary: It's a bit of a shock, he'll admit that. Concentrating on the gigantic pile of papers he's supposed to be filling out in one moment and lying on the ground with broken glass littering the floor in the next; he won't pretend he saw it coming. But it's a bit more of a shock to see a Very Much Alive Consulting Detective who he thought, until a moment ago, was Very Much Dead. No Slash


Gregory Lestrade coughed as the bitter taste of what had once been coffee stuck halfway down his esophagus. He set the mug down on the stack of papers reaching up to his shoulder, not caring that it would leave a brown ring across his signature, blurring the ink. Once his throat was coffee free, he sighed gloomily, running a hand through his hair and looking down at the smaller stack of papers he was supposed to be filling out. He was only just getting used to the monumental amount of paperwork required for someone in his position. Somehow it had seemed less strenuous a task when the Consulting Detective had been there to help him.

"Detective Inspector?" came a voice. Lestrade blinked, eyes darting up to meet the gaze of the speaker.

"What?" he prompted to Sally Donovan, who was leaning casually on the frame of the door. Lestrade found this irritating and considered telling her to stand up like someone who knew what they were doing, but discarded the thought. He supposed he was irrationally angry at her for starting what had caused the death of the Consulting Detective, thus earning Lestrade more paperwork. "Donovan, it's nearly midnight. What are you doing in my office?"

"Just popping by," Sally retorted, defensively. "I was just heading home. Had to wrap up the Richardson case."

Lestrade nodded. "I've got to finish up the Lewis case, as well as the three serial killers we caught last week."

Sally winced. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

Sally didn't move from where she stood; but continued reclining on the door frame. Lestrade didn't break their gaze; unsure of what to do. After about seven seconds of slightly awkward staring, he cleared his throat.

"Right. I'll be going," Sally said. Lestrade nodded and bent down to look over the papers once more. Lestrade winced as the door slammed shut.

"_Shite." _He had been staring at the same stack of papers for over an hour, and if the night continued at this pace, he wasn't going to get anything done by the time the sun rose. Giving it up for the next day, Lestrade tapped the papers lightly on the desk to ensure they were aligned correctly, and set them to the side. He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes, yawning, and arched his back off the chair, wincing as he heard the telltale cracks of ligaments falling into place.

Lestrade was quite fortunate that his eyes were covered by his hands, for at that precise moment, the rather large window on the side of his office exploded, shattering glass everywhere. Well, it didn't exactly explode; it was barreled into by two men, one wielding a spectacularly large knife, the other with his hands on the first's throat. But Lestrade didn't see this, as his hands were obscuring his eyes. As it happened, he fell to the ground instinctively, hand reaching for a firearm of any sort.

The two men on the ground were shouting obscenities, and Lestrade heard a few choice words thrown before there was the sound of metal clattering on the tiled floor. One of the men gave a strangled yell. There was the thud of something very hard hitting flesh, and then there was near silence; the only thing Lestrade could hear was ragged breathing.

Once deciding it was relatively safe, Lestrade crawled out from under his office desk. He thought to himself that, since one of the two men was clearly unconscious, the other one was likely dangerous (even if he hadn't been the one holding the knife). He had failed in his previous attempt at locating a firearm, and, in slight desperation to have _something _to wield in protection, grabbed the water bottle that had fallen to the ground when the window had shattered. Lestrade stood, water bottle poised, and opened his mouth to deliver some sort of threatening speech.

"Why are you holding a water bottle?" asked the figure standing in the middle of the room over a limp body.

Lestrade floundered, unable to form a sentence. "Self defense?" he came up with, after five seconds of trying to come up with a suitable answer.

The figure snorted. Lestrade had the urge to take the four strides or so required to shorten the distance between them and hit him over the head with the (very solid, very metal) water bottle.

"You really should get bulletproof glass, you know," the figure continued, carrying on as if he didn't notice Lestrade's obvious fury. "You're not protected in the slightest."

"Shut up," Lestrade snapped, his grip on the water bottle not slackening. "Just shut up. Right now."

The figure gave Lestrade an amused smirk.

"You're not dead."

"No," Sherlock agreed, still smirking. "Why? Are you disappointed?"

"You've been dead for two and a half years- no, more than that," Lestrade continued, voice escalating.

"And you haven't. I'd consider that an achievement," Sherlock countered. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, clearly asking for an explanation. "Well, Detective Inspector," Sherlock began, in a long suffering voice. Lestrade waved the water bottle dangerously in the air.

"Don't think I won't use this," he warned. Sherlock merely smirked again before launching into an elaborate story about Consulting criminals and aliases, snipers and stories, key codes and webs. Lestrade wondered to himself why Sherlock didn't write the stories down himself; he was a much more dramatic storyteller than John.

"Right," Lestrade said, more to himself than to the ghost in front of him. Throughout the course of the story, the water bottle had lowered itself from Highly Dangerous position to Mildly Dangerous position, resting at his side.

"It was really quite simple; I'm surprised you lot never figured it out," Sherlock concluded, rolling his eyes. "Honestly. I don't know why you employ such idiots-"

_CLANG._

Lestrade stepped back, slightly fearful of what the Consulting Detective's reaction would be to being whacked on the head with a metal water bottle.

"Right. Probably deserved that."

Lestrade snorted, dropping the bottle to the ground.

"So, you're back."

"Yes."

"Planning on leaving again?"

"If I do, it'll be a one way trip."

"Good to know."

"Never knew you had such a morbid persona, Inspector."

"Oh, shut it. You know what I meant."

"Yes, I do."

"You're paying for the glass, you know."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Yes, I am."

"Good."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes swept out of Gregory Lestrade's office with a swish of his coat.

"Oh, and by the way," he called, not bothering to turn back to the Detective Inspector, "that man was about to kill you. You might want to up your security protocol. _After _you arrest him, of course."

The door swung shut again, and Lestrade stared at it for a moment before turning back to the stacks of papers that had flown across the room in the fight. He barked out a laugh.

Because Sherlock Homes was back, and Lestrade would never have to do this much paperwork ever again.


End file.
